John Watson was in the kitchen of 221B, mixing a batch of cookie dough and making them into little globs on the cookie sheet. His apron, a white frock that said "Kiss me. I can't cook worth shit, but I'm a scientist" (a gift from Lestrade to Sherlock last Christmas because the D.I. thought it was hilarious), was covered in flour and his blond hair was matted with melted chocolate chips. It was a good thing Sherlock was in his bedroom; otherwise he would've laughed at the state his flat mate had gotten himself into. However, Sherlock had no right to laugh, because the cookies were being made at his request. The idiot had gone and cracked a rib in the escapade last week with the girl scouts, and being bed-ridden and bored, he'd emptied two or three guns into the wall of his room (and the wall of hospital room, which had gotten him sent home early), and was now whining for cookies.
John ran out of room on the cookie sheet he was using and opened a cupboard for another sheet. He pulled down a tray to get to the cookie sheets, then panicked when he saw the label on the side. The green plastic tray had a white label declaring it was a 'Portable Eye Tray', and inside was rolling around a few blue, green, and grey sets of eyes. "Ahh!" John yelped, then dropped the tray with haste.
The tray hit the counter and bounced to the floor, knocking over the brand new milk carton and spilling its contents over the tile floor. John swore loudly. "You OK?" Sherlock called meekly from the bedroom, then the lanky detective limped out into the kitchen. His blue robe hung open, revealing his bare chest covered with the bandages from the hospital, and his blue plaid flannel pants.
John's anger dissolved immediately at the sight of his wounded soldier. "Yeah. Just tell me why the hell you have this," he jutted a finger at the tray on the floor, "in the cabinet. It gave me a heart attack!"
"Experiment, John." Sherlock coughed, then held his side and winced. "Damn girl scouts. I told you we shouldn't have gotten mixed up in—why is the milk on the floor?"
"I dropped the tray on it in my shock." John muttered. "I think 221B is just destined to never have any milk." He looked down at the floor.
Sherlock and John stared at the empty milk carton for a long time before Sherlock finally said, "Where are my cookies?"